


Nothing that will fit in a stocking

by PlainJane



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Surprises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 05:38:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5528012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlainJane/pseuds/PlainJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas and Sherlock learns how important gifts are to John. But what do you get for the man you secretly love?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No Big Deal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [homosociallyyours](https://archiveofourown.org/users/homosociallyyours/gifts).



> My Sherlock Secret Santa for homosociallyyours! I hope you enjoy it!

Gifts are fascinating, Sherlock thought wryly. 

He tightened the belt of his favourite blue dressing gown over the charcoal shirt and matching trousers he was still wearing from his morning at the Yard. He drummed his fingers against the arm of his leather chair by the fire and observed.

John had begun his gift wrapping project shortly after lunch. They’d wrapped up the fake-suicide-extortion case the night before and then spent the morning with Lestrade filing reports. After a quick bite at Speedy’s, John had announced his intention to get all his gifts squared away—after all, they had only one more day before Christmas.

He was seated now on their dark leather sofa surrounded by a small pile of presents and a selection of random pieces of festive paper. He’d tugged up the sleeves on his new cobalt blue jumper.  _ (Was it new? When did he buy it?)  _ Still, he’d managed to get a few pieces of cello tape stuck to it. The large roll of ribbon had slipped off the edge of the coffee table and rolled halfway across the floor.

Sherlock noted the high colour in John’s cheeks and the creative array of muttered curse words—clearly John was not enjoying his afternoon’s endeavour. After one particularly vehement tirade against the shears, Sherlock made the mistake of suggesting that John should just leave off if it was going to be that much bother.

John’s response was witty, but entirely obscene. Sherlock smirked, but determined to keep his thoughts to himself for the duration. He settled into his chair and waited for John to finish.

Which was taking much longer than Sherlock imagined it should. Surely most people didn’t take the better part of three hours to wrap a dozen small gifts? 

Naturally, he knew better than to say  _ that _ .

And the process did provide him with some small entertainment. Not at John’s expense, of course. No, it was the gifts themselves.

Fascinating.

Take an item—any item—and disguise it with garish, multi-coloured paper. Suddenly the item becomes more than just a token of some fanciful holiday or the celebration of one’s slow progress toward death.  _ Now _ the item is a  _ mystery _ .

Not a very  _ good _ mystery, it had to be said. Gifts had all sorts of telltale smells and sounds. And some people simply made no effort to disguise the shape of what they had wrapped.

Sherlock snorted in derision. He didn’t give gifts, of course.  _ (Hopelessly sentimental and a waste of valuable time) _ If he did, though, no one would ever guess what they were. 

“Are you just going to sit there all day looking smug?”

“I beg your pardon?”

John sighed and looked up from the package he’d been struggling to encase in some sort of silvery snowflake-printed paper. “You’ve sat there—doing sod all—since I started,” he griped. “I know you hate the Christmas shopping, and I promised I’d never involve you in that again. But if you aren’t going to help me with this bit either then you can at least go and clean up your mess in the kitchen. Those test tubes aren’t going to wash themselves. Or you could provide some background music. Something useful, yeah?”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. First of all, he was absolutely certain John hadn’t asked for help. Second, he hated to think his only value to his once-again flatmate was in his utility. And third—

“For god’s sake,” John chuckled, still sounding mildly irritated. “I think I can actually hear you arguing with me inside your head.”

“I’m not! I wasn’t…” 

Sherlock trailed off as John looked up at him through fair lashes. He watched as the corners of John’s mouth turned up. Slowly, Sherlock grinned back. 

“What is all this anyway?” he asked finally. He surveyed the stack of gifts, some of which were now neatly arranged under the tree—that somehow appeared in the flat every Christmas with no effort or interest on his part—and some of which were carefully placed near the door. “Honestly, why do you have so much wrapping to do?”

“Because,” John started. His voice was low and a little dangerous.  _ (Still a bit cranky, then) _ “We have a lot of friends to think of at Christmastime.”

“Presents are such a waste, John,” Sherlock responded dryly. 

“A waste?”

“Yes! Once you’ve solved the mystery of what’s inside, it’s just something to put away and forget about. Unless it’s something truly useful, of course. In which case, why bother wrapping it at all?”

John stared at him for a moment and then shook his head. The smile on his face, though, was filled with fondness.

“Of course,” John said. “Of course. It makes perfect sense.” 

“Sorry?”

“Why you never wrap the bottle of whisky you get me every Christmas.”

“That’s not a gift,” Sherlock insisted. He frowned now at John’s confusion.

“It—isn’t it?”

“No. Of course not. That’s just me stocking the drinks cupboard. Why do you think I didn’t get you anything the year you were with Mary?”

“You did!” John protested. “You absolutely did! The same expensive whisky, under the tree…” 

“Oh,” Sherlock said suddenly. “Oh, I see.”

“Oh, god,” John moaned. A crease appeared in his brow as his expression darkened. Clearly the pain was still too fresh. “Why would she do that?”

“She, well, she needed you and I to stay connected. You must have told her about the whisky.”

“I suppose.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I imagine she felt she needed to keep that bridge between us, once you’d decided to forgive me. For her own…purposes. And I suppose it gave her a thrill to insinuate herself between us like that.”

John sighed. He dropped his head into his hands. “And the things in my stocking, and under the tree, that first Christmas? Who was that, then?”

Sherlock scanned his memory for any traces of the items John was referring to. “I—don’t—”

“Mrs. Hudson,” John said wearily. “Of course. She knows what you’re like and she wouldn’t want me to feel bad.”

Sherlock sank into his chair at the wounded tone in John’s voice. Were Christmas gifts really so important?

“I’m…sorry,” Sherlock started, a sinking feeling forming in the pit of his stomach. He found it very unsettling when John was upset. Sad. Hurting. Seeing John that way, especially now…well, it simply wouldn’t do. 

Sherlock stood and approached John amidst the rubble of his gift wrap. “John, I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s fine,” John replied abruptly. He straightened and swiped a hand over his face. “It’s fine. Doesn’t matter.”

Sherlock stopped in front of the coffee table, his fists clenched into the fabric of his dressing gown inside the pockets. ( _ It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter, but it does.) _

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock repeated, feeling a flutter of panic now. 

Things had been so very good between them since Mary and Moriarty and the end of the whole business. John was home now and everything was lovely. He couldn’t lose that. He couldn’t lose John.

“Forget it,” John replied, a fake smile on his face. “Doesn’t matter. Why would you buy me Christmas presents? I’m just your flatmate. The guy you work with. No big deal.”

Sherlock frowned, biting his lip. Things had taken a decidedly unpleasant turn.

“John, you are more than just my flatmate or my colleague. You know that.”

“Do I?” John asked. His voice was tight with emotion.

“Of course. You are my…best friend.”

John’s stare was piercing. “I am. Just that.”

“Well…” Sherlock started.

“No. You know what, never mind.” John sighed heavily, his expression suddenly shuttered.

“You’re angry with me,” Sherlock said quietly. “I don’t want you to be angry.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not really up to you, is it?” John snapped. “Besides, I’m not angry. I’m—no, forget it. Forget all of it.” John shoved his mess aside and stood. “I’ll finish this later. I’m going out.”

John stomped from the room, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair with one hand. Moments later, Sherlock was standing at the top of the stairs listening to the front door slam.

This was not good.


	2. Making Amends

Sherlock was playing his violin—Chopin’s Nocturne Op 9 No2—and watching the light snow falling softly when he finally heard the front door once more. He glanced at his watch to find it was after 1 a.m. John had been gone longer than he expected.

He listened, counting John’s footsteps on the stairs. Shortly, there was a scuffling sort of noise behind him. John was hovering just inside the sitting room door.

“How is Mike?” Sherlock asked without relinquishing his view of the street.

“Fine. He’s fine,” John said. “Look, Sherlock…”

Sherlock turned, violin and bow now hanging at his sides. He studied John in the dim light offered by the lamp near the music stand as he set his instrument aside. John was still wearing his jacket and his hair was dusted with snow. He was wearing a mildly sheepish expression, clenching his gloves very tightly.

“I’m sorry,” John continued. 

Sherlock waited to see it there would be more before he responded. It wouldn’t do to interrupt.

“I shouldn’t have snapped,” John went on. “And I do know that we’re friends. Of course I know that.” He released a heavy breath. “My temper is…well, you know it gets the better of me. I know I need to work on discussing more and shouting less. I’m sorry.”

When the pause lengthened, and Sherlock was certain John didn’t have anything more to add, he stepped forward and extended his hand. 

“As am I,” he said solemnly. “I’m a thoughtless friend. And I should know better than to bring up Ma—”

“Not your fault,” John interrupted before Sherlock could say her name. He stared at Sherlock’s offered hand for some time before taking it. “I know who you are and I shouldn’t…anyway. It’s Christmas and I want us to have a peaceful holiday. I think we’ve both earned it.”

“Agreed,” Sherlock said. 

He released John’s hand—perhaps more slowly than he should have—and moved to take his seat by the fire. John followed suit, stretching his legs out in front of him.

“You’ll be happy to know,” Sherlock started. “While you’ve been out, I’ve been looking up holiday gift-giving etiquette.”

John huffed with amusement. “You don’t have to do that. Honestly.”

“Yes, I think I do,” Sherlock said. “Anyway, I’ve learned quite a bit.”

“Really?” John looked mildly, but pleasantly, surprised. “So you’re going to—”

“Absolutely,” Sherlock confirmed. “I will select gifts for all the people who are most important to me.” He tugged a neatly folded piece of paper from his dressing gown pocket. “I’ve made a list.”

John’s eyes widened, but he leaned forward and took the paper from Sherlock. He unfolded it, crossing his legs as he read. “Lestrade, Mrs. H, Molly—so far, so good.”

“Thank you.”

“What about your parents? And Mycroft?”

“Oh, I’ve always done something for my parents. Can you imagine my mother tolerating anything less?”

John snickered. “Uh, no.”

“I have a standing order with Fortnum and Mason to have something delivered to them the day before Christmas,” Sherlock replied. “However Mycroft would probably have me deported if I did something so sentimental as to buy him a Christmas present.”

“Fair enough. Dimmock? Interesting choice.”

Sherlock shrugged. “He can be very agreeable.”

“Is this…” John trailed off looking up at Sherlock. “How on earth are you planning to buy presents for your entire Homeless Network?”

“Not sure. Still working on it.”

“Okay.” John read a bit more. “Adler?”

“Of course.”

John shrugged and set the list down on his thigh. “Pretty extensive for someone who’s just getting into this whole thing. You could start small.”

“No, no,” Sherlock replied waving a hand. “I’ve been remiss. Might as well just get on with it.”

“Right,” John said. “I suppose full steam ahead is one way to do it.” 

His smile was once more full of fondness, and Sherlock tried very hard not to be distracted as John handed his list back to him.

“So when are you going to go shopping?”

“As it happens, I’ve already started,” Sherlock said, feeling just a little bit pleased with himself. “Online shopping is brilliant.”

“Yes it is,” John agreed with a nod. He yawned and glanced at his watch. “Well, I’m for bed. You?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I have a few things to finish first.”

John nodded and stood, stretching. Sherlock tried very hard to ignore the sliver of tummy that appeared as the hem of John’s jumper lifted to reveal an untucked shirt.

“I guess I’ll see you in the morning, then.” John strode toward the upper stairs, then hesitated. “Oh and Sherlock?”

“Hmmm?”

“Thanks. And this—what you’re doing—I think it’s great.”

Sherlock smiled, trying to look nonchalant. The moment John disappeared from view he slumped in his chair. He had always been affected by John’s easy manner with affirmation and praise. Somehow it had never been quite this potent before.

“I think it’s great,” he whispered, visualizing the look on John’s face. Not just admiration, but…pride.

For so many years he’d been oblivious to feelings. He’d deliberately kept himself apart from emotions. They buggered up the work and cluttered his Mind Palace. John Watson, though, had never played by the rules. From the very first day they met, John had been making him laugh and care and…

Love.

It was just that simple. He loved John Watson. He always had. And for some time, that love had been of a decidedly non-platonic sort. 

“Weakness found on the losing side,” he muttered to himself.

Well, if he was going to be sunk by this particular weakness, he was going to do it in style. John deserved the very best and Sherlock was going to get it for him. If gifts were what you did for the people you cared about most, well, then, by god, John Watson was going to get the most spectacular gift he could find. Something special. Unique. Amazing.

Sherlock got up from his chair and went in search of his laptop.


	3. What Does John Like?

“Sherlock? What are you doing here at this time of morning?” 

Molly juggled her coffee travel mug and her keys as she struggled with the door. Sherlock eased to a full upright position from where he had been leaning against the wall next to her lab’s entrance. He held the door for her while she ducked inside.

The lab was dark, but very neat. Molly and her colleagues ran a very tight ship. The lights came on automatically, immediately highlighting the chrome and melamine surfaces.

“Is it a case?” Molly asked, setting her things down on the nearest counter so she could remove her overcoat. She unzipped the heavy anorak and slipped it off, revealing a rather startling ensemble.

Sherlock watched her for a moment, trying to determine what had changed. In spite of her still very unique clothing choices, Molly seemed somewhat different lately. Her hair was a little shorter and a lighter colour, caught up this morning in a loose ponytail—that wasn’t it, though. She wore exactly the same amount of makeup as she had before, but somehow her skin and her eyes seemed brighter than they had. It was all very…nice.

The clothes, though. Sherlock tried not to scowl.

Today she was wearing a long, pink, rose-printed cardigan with coordinating bubble-gum coloured plaid leggings. Sherlock personally found her style—which often combined frumpy grandmother with wildly eclectic charity shop—deeply disturbing. However, he had learned (with John’s assistance) that his opinion was neither required nor appreciated. And as her clothes didn’t appear to have any impact on Molly’s intellect or other admirable qualities, he had decided not dwell on them.

“No, nothing like that,” Sherlock replied, shaking his head. He shoved his still-gloved hands into his pockets. “I need some advice.”

Molly considered this for a moment as she hung her coat on a hook on the wall and stuffed her gloves in the pockets. “What about? I mean, if it’s research, I can probably give you an hour or two.”

“Not research.”

“No?”

“It’s more of a holiday question.”

“Really?” Molly hesitated. “You’re not going to try to finish that thing about children and Father Christmas and shared delusions are you?”

“Uh, no.”

“Oh, good,” Molly smiled, looking very relieved. “Well, then, how can I help?”

“It’s a personal matter.”

“I see. And you’re sure you want to ask me about it?” Molly asked.

“Don’t be silly, Molly,” Sherlock said. “As it happens, you have been very helpful on any number of occasions. Look at John’s stag do.”

Molly bit her lip and colour rose to her cheeks as she fastened her lab coat. “Right. About that…”

Sherlock swept into the room to find a stool. He perched on it and waited for Molly to approach.

“And there was the thing with the trains, and that fake Ripper nonsense.”

“Yes, but…”

“I’m almost certain you are exactly the right person to ask about this.” 

Molly stopped right in front of him, beaming now. “Okay. What is it?”

“I need to buy John a Christmas present.”

“Oh, well…”

Sherlock held up a hand. “But not just any present. This is John, so it has to be very special.”

Molly’s mouth twisted into a funny shape and she made a face. Sherlock wasn’t exactly sure what it was meant to indicate.  _ (Is she sceptical? Amused? Suffering from indigestion?) _

“Of course,” Molly said kindly. She patted Sherlock’s arm. “I know how important John is to you.”

Sherlock frowned at her tone. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Molly shrugged and tried very hard to look innocent. “Nothing. Nothing at all. I just meant that I can see why this is something you’d want to get right.”

“Well, yes.” Sherlock shifted in his seat, somewhat mollified. “He’s a good friend and he deserves something unique. Something…”

Molly settled on the stool next to him and reached for her coffee mug. She took a long sip and then proceeded to study Sherlock’s face, which made him uncomfortable.  _ (What on earth is she looking for?) _

“I suppose you know all the things he likes, and what his hobbies are?” she asked finally.

“I…” Sherlock felt a flutter of panic. He knew John better than anyone else, better than he’d ever tried to know anyone before. But just at the moment, he couldn’t think of a single thing John liked.

“Does he like books?” Molly offered.

“I don’t—yes. Probably?”

“You could always find a first edition of one of his favourites.”

Sherlock pondered this, trying to visualize the cover of something John had read. He did recall seeing some paperback novels in the sitting room. None of the titles or authors came to mind.

“Or maybe he would be more interested in something nice to wear?”

Sherlock scoffed at this. “I hardly think he needs more jumpers. And that isn’t—you’re not thinking big enough!”

Molly stifled a grin. “I see. Well maybe if you could tell me how much you’re happy to spend?”

“It isn’t about the  _ money _ ,” Sherlock huffed, rising from his seat to pace. “It’s about the meaning. The gesture.” He stopped at the end of the counter and spun to face Molly once more. “What do people give each other? People like John and me?”

Molly sputtered, choking on a mouthful of coffee. Sherlock moved swiftly to slap her back as she coughed. When it was clear she wasn’t going to asphyxiate, he handed her a tissue.

Molly looked up at him through tears. “People like you,” she coughed. “And John?”

“Yes. You know: Friends. Flatmates. Colleagues.”

Sherlock waited, but Molly merely stared at him.

“What?” he asked, exasperated. “Why is this such a difficult question?”

“Sherlock,” Molly said gently, wiping her eyes. “I suspect I’m not the best person to ask about this kind of gift. I think this may be something I’ve not experienced myself.”

Sherlock shook his head. “You’ve never had a friend? Never shared a flat with anyone? Never bought anyone a gift? What on earth are you talking about?”

Molly stood and placed a hand on his arm. She squeezed and Sherlock looked down at the contact, confused. When he looked at Molly, she had the strangest expression on her face: tenderness and…pity?

“I do know what it’s like to care about someone the way you care about John,” she said, looking him in the eye. “But I didn’t…” She hesitated. “Well, let’s just say Christmas gifts didn’t work for me.”

Sherlock swallowed as realization began to dawn.  _ Oh, god. _

“Luckily, now I’ve found someone who really cares about me. The right person,” Molly smiled to herself. “Anyway, we can talk about that another time. The most important thing is that you find someone who knows John very well—Sherlock, are you okay? You’ve gone a funny colour.”

“N-no. Fine. Fine. Absolutely fine.”

Molly smiled at him, and it was the kind of smile he used for people he’d figured out. The people whose secrets he’d unmasked. Molly’s version, though, was much softer. Full of compassion. 

She knew. 

“So you can’t help me, then,” he said briskly.

Molly shook her head. “I don’t think so, no.”

With her hand still on his arm to hold him in place, she stretched up and placed a kiss on his cheek.

“It’ll all work out,” she said gently. “Trust me.”


	4. Just Sort It

_ Need help _ _   
_ _ Urgent _ _   
_ __ SH

_ Not falling for that again _ _   
_ _ G _

_ Serious _ _   
_ _ Desperate _ _   
_ __ SH

_ What do you want, Sherlock? _ _   
_ _ G _

_ Need assistance _ _   
_ _ Advice _ _   
_ _ Critical _ _   
_ __ SH

_ Critical? Is someone going to die? _ _   
_ _ G _

_ Will you help me or not? _ _   
_ _ SH _

_ Fine. Be there in 20 minutes _ _   
_ _ G _

 

Sherlock paced in the sitting room, waiting for Lestrade to arrive. 

After leaving Bart’s, he’d wracked his brain trying to come up with someone who knew him—and John—well enough to help with the problem. Someone who wouldn’t guess…that. He couldn’t risk it. He just needed some seasonal input. A nice, objective opinion.

As to the rest, well, clearly that couldn’t ever be discussed. John could never know. He didn’t want that, not with Sherlock, and Sherlock couldn’t risk losing him altogether.

He heard footsteps and turned to face the door, arms clasped behind his back.

Lestrade crested the stairs and stopped just inside the door. His long grey coat flapped around him as he lifted his hands. “All right, I’m here,” he said wearily. “What’s this urgent, critical problem, then?”

“Christmas.”

“Yeah. What about it?” Lestrade shrugged. “Look, you know we get a lot of crazy stuff this time of year, but none if it is likely to interest you. I’d call you if—”

“No, no,” Sherlock interrupted. “This isn’t about cases.”

Lestrade stared at him. “Really?”

“No.”

“What is it then?”

Sherlock cleared his throat.

“It’s something else entirely,” Sherlock continued. “Something personal.”

“Oh, Sherlock, for god’s sake,” Lestrade groaned. He rolled his eyes. “I told you with the best man speech—you do NOT call me away from work for something like this!”

“But it’s important!”

“I don’t care! I was working!” Lestrade waved a hand back in the general direction of the stairs. “I have about a hundred reports waiting for sign off back at the office.”

“Lestrade—”

“Greg!” Lestrade barked. “If you are going to call me over here for ‘personal’ help, the least you could do is get my first name right.”

Sherlock swallowed hard. “Greg. You’re right. I apologize.”

Lestrade’s eyebrows shut up toward his hairline and he pulled back a bit. “Come again?”

“I apologize,” Sherlock repeated through gritted teeth. “And I do appreciate you taking the time. I know you’re busy, but this is very important and I need your expertise.”

Greg hesitated, giving Sherlock a good sizing up. When he seemed satisfied that Sherlock was sincere, he nodded and moved to drop down onto the sofa. He crossed his legs and slapped his hands on his thighs.

“Well, then? What’s the problem?”

Sherlock began to pace. “It’s about John.”

“Yeah. What about him?”

Sherlock stopped pacing, staring out onto the landing and up the stairs to John’s room. “I need to get him something for Christmas. Something very special. Very, very special.”

There was a long pause. At length, Sherlock turned to find Lestrade looking at him, mouth slightly agape. He waited, but Lestrade continued to stare. When the silence became unbearable, Sherlock unclasped his hands and gestured at his guest.

“Is there a problem?”

Lestrade seemed to wake from his stupor, shaking his head. “N-no. I mean. No. Right. Yeah.”

“So my question is—”

“No wait—sorry. Can I just…” Lestrade leaned in, head cocked to one side, and rested his elbows on his knees. “So this is a personal thing, about  _ John _ —something  _ very, very special _ —and you want to ask  _ me _ about it?”

“Yes!” Sherlock replied, exasperated. 

Greg nodded, slowly, never taking his eyes from Sherlock. “Wow. I mean—great! This is great! It’s about time. We’ve all been wondering…”

“Wondering?” Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest. “Wondering what?”

“Well, we all thought you were. And then you were gone and it seemed like maybe you never had been. And then you came back and we were sure you hadn’t, but that you desperately wanted to.”

“Really?” Sherlock’s voice reflected his surprise. “You seem to have given the subject a lot of thought.”

“Well, John’s a mate. And so are you.” Greg shrugged.

Sherlock pondered this, moving to sit in the chair underneath his skull painting. “Who is ‘we’?”

“Hmm? Oh, well, you know. Just my team. And Mrs. H.” He smiled and his face softened. “And Molly.”

“Molly?” Sherlock sat back.

“Yeah. Why?”

“But she—wait a minute. Exactly what is it that you all think I haven’t done but desperately want to?”

Greg’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“What is it that you’ve all been talking about so frequently?” Sherlock stood again, feeling panicked. He backed away from the sofa and from Greg. “You’re not talking about _buying_ _Christmas presents_ , are you?”

Greg stood now, looking thoroughly confused. “Christmas presents?”

“Oh, god,” Sherlock moaned. He turned toward the fire, trying to eliminate the last five minutes from his hard drive and failing abysmally.

“Sherlock, are you all right?” Greg asked moving toward him. “Look, it’s nothing bad, is it? We just—well, we all thought you and John were already  _ together _ . And then it turned out you weren’t.”

“Oh, god.” Sherlock repeated, head in hands.

Greg was right behind him now, one hand on his shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay. Look, this is a great time of year for this sort of thing. Really romantic, or whatever.”

“Please kill me. I’m begging you. Just make it quick.”

Greg snorted. “You are always such a dramatic pain in the arse.” He slapped Sherlock on the back. “You’ll be fine. Just do a nice dinner. Bottle of wine. And when you ask John, make sure you do it on one knee.”

“Ask him?” Sherlock looked up, eyes wide with terror. “Ask him  _ what _ ?”

Greg studied Sherlock’s face for a minute. “You’re a mess, aren’t you?” 

Sherlock blinked at him, processing.

“I definitely can’t help you with this, Sherlock,” Greg sighed. He ran a hand through his greying hair and started to walk back toward the door.

“Wait! You’re leaving? But I haven’t even told you what I want…”

“Yeah, well, maybe not, but it’s pretty bloody obvious what you  _ need _ ,” Greg said firmly. He winked at Sherlock over his shoulder. “You’ll be fine. I know it’s scary, but you can do this.”

“Do  _ what _ ?”

“Sort it, Sherlock,” Greg called back from the stairs. “Do us all a favour and just get it sorted. Trust me—it’ll be worth it.”


	5. Why Now?

Scraping the bottom of the barrel. That was how the expression went, wasn’t it? 

Regardless, it was certainly how it felt to Sherlock.

He sat in his brother’s wood-panelled Westminster office, tapping his feet impatiently on the worn carpet. He’d been waiting for almost half an hour—Andrea’s replacement  _ (Meghan? Marguerite? Maggie?) _ had ushered him in and told him to make himself comfortable. Clearly, though, His Official Fatness was taking his time on purpose. 

Sherlock was checking his watch again when the door opened behind him.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft acknowledged. He strode toward his desk, completely engrossed in the stack of documents he was carrying. He sat down without looking up. “Do be quick. Minor crisis in the Balkans…”

“Christmas presents,” Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft glanced away from his work, clearly puzzled. “What about them?”

“Who do you buy them for?”

“Well, mummy and dad, of course.”

“No, no—other people.”

Mycroft looked thoughtful. “There is an official list. I do not do any of the purchasing myself, naturally.”

“Naturally,” Sherlock ground out. “What about personal gifts? Friends or acquaintances?”

Now Mycroft looked very confused indeed. “Sherlock, what are you on about? Why this sudden interest in gift-giving? Didn’t John try to coordinate that with you when you first moved in together? I understand it didn’t go well.”

“Christmas  _ shopping _ is  _ not _ the same as giving gifts,” Sherlock insisted. “I’ve never given it much thought, but clearly it’s important to John and so I’m going to do it.”

“Do what—go shopping?”

“You are being deliberately obtuse,” Sherlock growled. “Did you skip your morning energy beverage?”

Mycroft sighed heavily, rolling his eyes. He slid back in his seat and crossed his legs. “Why don’t you start at the beginning, then?”

“John likes giving and receiving gifts. He’s not as fond of wrapping, but nevertheless.” Sherlock shrugged as he regarded his hands in his lap. “He thought I had given him…”

“Ah, I see. He thought you’d been giving him presents all along. Mrs. Hudson, was it? Or...oh, I see. Mary.” Mycroft released a heavy breath. “Funny John didn’t work that out from your other attempts—like the assessment you gave him for his birthday, about his friends all hating him.”

Sherlock frowned at the strange ache in his chest at the reminder. “Never mind that. The point is, he sees the whole process as an indicator of affection and respect.”

“You didn’t like that he was disappointed in you.”

Sherlock was silent for some time. “No,” he replied finally, his voice small.

“And what exactly is it that you are expecting from me?”

“What can I buy him?”

“I have no idea.”

“Mycroft!”

“Sherlock, this is ridiculous. I have less interest in this sort of thing than you do. And  _ I _ have no reason to change.”

“You don’t have any friends.”

“I have colleagues.”

“No one you care enough about to—”

“Not as such, no.” Mycroft confirmed, looking weary. “Look, this is not my area, little brother. I understand how important Dr. Watson is to you. I do.”

“I need to get him something spectacular. Something that will make up for…before.”

“Well, I’m certain I am not the person to help you with that,” Mycroft replied. His head cocked to the side as he considered this for a moment. “Why now?”

“Sorry?”

“Why now? Why this particular Christmas?”

“We’ve had so many other things to think about, Mycroft.”

“Well, yes. But you’ve had other Christmases. Why  _ this _ one? What’s changed?”

Sherlock could not meet his brother’s eyes.

“I see.”

“No, you don’t,” Sherlock replied sharply. “You don’t see  _ anything _ .”

“So then we may soon be hearing that happy announcem—”

“Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock nearly collapsed with relief as Meghan/Marguerite/Maggie entered the room again.

“Yes?”

“Urgent call. Line 1.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft replied smoothly. He reached for the phone, nodding at his brother. “You can see yourself out, can’t you?”

Sherlock nodded clumsily and stood. He made his way to the door, hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat. He was very nearly away when Mycroft called after him.

“Oh, and Sherlock?”

He turned to look back over his shoulder. Mycroft was smiling at him, without a trace of cynicism.

“Good luck.”


	6. The Last Resort

Sherlock loitered in the corridor outside Mike Stamford’s office, fingers twitching for a cigarette. He was restless and out of sorts, and no closer to a solution to his problem.

He knew coming to Mike Stamford was a stretch. Mike and John were still friends, though they had drifted apart somewhat when John was with Mary. Sherlock himself had hardly seen the man since he’d brought John to Bart’s on that fateful January day.

“Sherlock! This is a surprise,” Mike said cheerfully. He was coming from the main doors, still dressed for the outdoor weather. He shook some snow from his coat as he approached.

Mike was a short, round-faced and soft-voiced man. His brown hair was still thinning and plump cheeks were still topped by thick-rimmed glasses. And he had a fondness for striped ties and tweed. Fortunately, he was genial and not entirely useless.

“Yes, I…I was wondering if you might be able to help me with something,” Sherlock said. “It’s about John.”

Mike’s face instantly creased with worry. “Is he all right? Has something happened?” He unlocked his office door and let them both inside.

“No, no. Nothing like that,” Sherlock reassured him. He followed Mike into the small office, waiting while Mike hung his coat and set his case down on the old-fashioned wood desk—complete with blotter. “It’s a personal matter.”

“I see,” Mike said carefully. “Something personal about John.”

“Yes. It’s to do with Christmas.”

“Oh,” Mike said, smiling now. “Oh, I see. Has this got anything to do with the other night?”

Mike sat in his big black leather office chair, gesturing for Sherlock to take the seat across the desk. Sherlock settled and leaned forward onto the edge of the desk.

“Sort of. I suppose.”

“Yeah, he felt terrible about that,” Mike said, chuckling softly. “He’s got a temper; always has had. The fuse is a little shorter now than it used to be, but he always feels bad when it gets the better of him.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile at this. John could be so prickly, but deep down  _ (Well, not all that deep, really) _ he could be quite sensitive.

“The thing is, I need to get him a Christmas gift. Something really outstanding.”

“Oh, right.”

“I’m a bit short on ideas.”

“You, Sherlock?” Mike looked sceptical. “I have a hard time featuring that.”

“I know it seems unlikely.”

“Impossible, more like.”

“But this isn’t a case or a corpse or…whatever. This is John.”

“Right,” Mike said softly, a small smile on his face.

“I want to make sure his gift is something he will love. Something that will make him feel good, and happy, and important. Something he’ll always treasure.”

“And what sorts of things are you considering?” Mike folded his hands over his middle—which was somewhat smaller than the last time Sherlock had seen him. 

“I have absolutely no idea where to begin,” Sherlock admitted. His shoulders slumped. He was so very tired. The day had been completely exhausting thus far.

Mike nodded, watching Sherlock carefully. “Thing is, Sherlock, I’ve known John Watson a long time.”

“I realize that. That’s why I was hoping you might have some idea—”

“He’s a very good man and he’s been through a lot.”

Sherlock felt his face heat. He hated that he was responsible for at least some of it.

“I’d really like to see him get a little piece of happiness,” Mike went on. “But I knew the minute I met Mary that she wasn’t the one that would happen with.”

“No?” Sherlock’s eyebrows came up.  _ (Of course—Mike sent regrets. He didn’t come to the wedding.) _

“No,” Mike answered firmly. He leaned forward until his face and Sherlock’s were only inches apart. “I knew she wasn’t the one exactly the same way I knew that you  _ were _ , on the day I introduced you to John.”

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat. He tried to sit back, but found he couldn’t. Instead he sat, nose to nose with Mike Stamford, forgetting how to inhale.

“Breathe,” Mike insisted. He stood and made his way around the desk to pat Sherlock’s back. “In and out. Come on.”

Sherlock gasped, only just managing to get move air into his lungs. His chest was on fire and his heart was racing. He clenched his hands to find his palms were sweaty.

“You’ll be all right,” Mike soothed. “Just a bit of a shock, that’s all. Brought on an anxiety attack. Not to worry. I’ve got you.”

Mike’s bedside manner was admirable, but it nevertheless took the better part of half an hour for Sherlock to recover. By the time he had, he was lying on the settee on the far side of Mike’s office. Stamford, for his part, went to fetch some water. 

When he returned, he sat in the chair beside the small sofa and handed the plastic cup to Sherlock. “There you are. Have a sip or two of that. And I’ve brought an oatmeal bar as well—John’s told me what your eating habits can be like. Your blood sugar might be in need of a top up.”

Sherlock propped himself on his elbow and took the cup. He finished the water in a few sips and then rested back against the arm of the sofa. He took the offered oatmeal bar and twiddled it between his fingers.

“I feel ridiculous,” he muttered.

Mike laughed. “I’ve seen plenty of people go down like a ton of bricks during an anxiety attack. It’s not something to be taken lightly. It can be very hard on your system.”

“Not that,” Sherlock whispered sheepishly.

Mike eyed him for a moment. “Oh, the other,” he said. “Yes, well, I suppose I shouldn’t have blurted it out like that. I know you haven’t…and John hasn’t…”

Sherlock turned sharply in Mike’s direction. “John hasn’t what? What did he say? Has he said something?”

“Easy now,” Mike admonished, patting Sherlock’s arm. “Breathe in, all right? I just meant—look, I know how you feel about John. And I knew it from the first moment you looked at him. I don’t know how anyone could miss it. You two fit together. You just do.”

Sherlock fell silent, back to studying the oatmeal bar in his hand.

“When I saw John in that park, and I heard him say the words…I don’t know why, but it all just made sense. You two, at Baker Street.” Mike shrugged. “And when I saw you together in that lab, I just knew it was meant to be.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and groaned.

“Don’t be like that,” Mike said. “I know how it sounds, but you know I’m right. John Watson is the person who fits with you, and vice versa.”

“But John is straight,” Sherlock protested. “He’s always said he isn’t gay.”

“Well, you told him you were married to your work,” Mike reminded him sharply. “And how stupid was that?”

“Stupid,” Sherlock agreed.

“Anyway,” Mike continued. “’Not gay’ and ‘straight’ are not the same thing. I have it on very good authority.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock released the word and breathed out a sigh with it. It was almost too much to hope for. That he hadn’t squandered his chance. Maybe everyone could see…and maybe they were all right.

Mike patted his arm again. “So then, about this Christmas present.”

“Yes?”

“You want it to be something he will love. Something that will make him feel good, and happy, and important. Something he’ll always treasure, correct?”

“Exactly,” Sherlock said, smiling now.

“May I make a suggestion?”


	7. Do I Get To Unwrap you?

“Sherlock? Are you in yet? I’m back from Harriet’s. Aaaaaaand it was exactly as terrible as I expected.”

John went straight into the kitchen and turned on the light over the sink. He began unpacking the bags in his hand, laying containers of steaming food out on the table. “She’s managed to stay off the booze, which unfortunately means she is just delightful to be around.”

The sitting room was in darkness, save for the lights on the tree and the string of fairy lights over the mantel. John glanced down the hall.

“I know we didn’t talk about dinner, but I got Chinese. I ordered a few extra of those dumplings you like,” he rambled on, walking in the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom. He poked his head through the doorway. “Sherlock? We did say we were spending Christmas Eve together, yeah?” John glanced into the bathroom on his way past and then walked back toward the sitting room. “Are you sleeping on the sofa again…”

John trailed off as he finally stepped into the dimly lit room. Sherlock waited silently for the picture to sink in.

“You’re—what—?” John tried. He waved a hand in the general direction of where Sherlock now sat.

He’d taken his place on the floor in front of the Christmas tree, which this year was set up in front of the window at the end of the sofa. He was kneeling and wrapped in ribbon with a huge red bow tied over his chest.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock could hear the confusion in John’s voice and it did nothing to settle his nerves.

“Happy Christmas, John.”

John blinked at him.

“Sherlock?”

“I-I…I know you prefer to do presents Christmas morning, but…” Sherlock hesitated. “Anyway, I wanted to get you something very special. To make up for all the other Christmases, and everything.”

John stared, hands hanging at his sides. 

Sherlock admired John’s blue-checked shirt.  _ (It brings out the colour of his eyes) _ And his well-fitting jeans. And the charming tuft of hair that was sticking up at the back of John’s head where he’d clearly dusted the snow away. 

Sherlock swallowed hard, heart thundering in his ears.

John’s head cocked to one side and he dropped his gaze to the floor. He was breathing heavily, Sherlock noted. He was either horrified or angry. Or both.

“Are you going to say…anything?”

“Why?” John said weakly.

Sherlock closed his eyes in defeat. “I’m it. Your present,” he blurted. “It was Mike’s idea. He said I was the only thing you really wanted and I know you said you’re not gay but he said that didn’t mean what I thought it did and that I was the best present I could give you and that this was what you really wanted and Molly and Greg and my idiot brother all seemed to agree but I knew it was a mistake so we should just forget about it and pretend it never happened—”

“Shhhh,” John said gently, finally rousing to approach the spot where Sherlock was sitting. He folded his legs under him and knelt facing Sherlock. “Easy. Take it easy.”

Sherlock knew his chin was quivering. He hated feeling so vulnerable, as though the sum total of his Mind Palace were lying exposed on the floor.

John was looking at him. Really looking at him. Sherlock had to look back. Their eyes locked.

“So you’re my Christmas gift?” John asked, his voice rough.

“Yes. Sort of,” Sherlock breathed. He reached out and took John’s hand. He lifted it slowly, finally slipping it beneath the ridiculous red bow to flatten John’s palm out over his breastbone.

John watched this solemnly and Sherlock could feel his heart racing under John’s touch.

“That’s for me,” John said softly.

Sherlock nodded. “I know some might say it’s not much—”

John shook his head immediately. “Idiots,” he rasped, his eyes beginning to well up.

Sherlock could feel tears in his own eyes, too.  _ Oh, god. _

“Everything I am, John. Everything. Especially this bit,” he whispered, pressing John’s hand over his heart once more. “That I’ve underused for so long.” He swallowed again, fighting against the lump forming in his throat. “Yours. Always—”

Any additional words were cut off by the broken noise John made as he suddenly surged forward and captured Sherlock’s lips. 

It was a hard kiss and desperate. Sherlock swayed forward into the contact, helpless. He grasped at John’s shoulders while John cupped his jaw with one hand to hold him close. John’s mouth slanted over his own with almost bruising intensity. Sherlock responded as best he knew how. He let John guide him, opening his lips at the prompting of John’s tongue.

The noise he made as John entered his mouth was wholly embarrassing, but neither of them could stop. Sherlock was well and truly lost.

Ages later—who could say how long—John finally withdrew, but only far enough to rest his forehead against Sherlock’s. They panted together, breathing each other in.

“You are the best gift I have  _ ever _ received,” John whispered roughly. “Oh, god, Sherlock, I’ve wanted this for so long. I thought…”

“So did I,” Sherlock replied. He slid his hand from John’s shoulder to grip John’s bicep. “I’m sorry. Wasted so much time.”

“Doesn’t matter now,” John said, shaking his head against Sherlock. “I have you—you’re all mine and I’m never letting go. Never.”

Sherlock shivered at the tone of John’s voice. So possessive. So commanding. So certain.

“So this is…good?” Sherlock asked tentatively.

“Very,” John affirmed, pulling back to look Sherlock in the eye. “Very, very good.” He smoothed a hand over Sherlock’s brow, teasing one dark curl out of the way. He cupped Sherlock’s cheek, then, and stroked his thumb over the bone.

Sherlock blinked several times, as this information sank in.

“I thought about a giant stocking,” Sherlock said. “But the only one I could find was still too short.”

John’s head cocked to one side once more. The look he gave Sherlock was suddenly much more sensual than it had been. “The bow is nice.”

“It is?”

“Mhmmm.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

“So,” John rumbled. “Do I get to unwrap you?” 


	8. All I Want for Christmas is You

Sherlock’s mouth fell open and his gaze dropped to John’s mouth. “I—”

John began to stroke gently over Sherlock’s shoulders and down his arms. “Would that be okay?”

Sherlock nodded vigorously, not trusting himself to speak. He was shaking at the touch of John’s hands and he wasn’t sure he could string words together.

John smiled and nodded. He reached for the ends of the big bow where they draped into Sherlock’s lap. He tugged until the bow began to release and then slipped one hand up to pull it apart. As the ribbon fell away, he leaned in once more to taste Sherlock’s mouth.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered, nibbling at Sherlock’s lips. “So brilliant. Amazing.”

“John…” Sherlock groaned. He was leaning so far forward that he knew he’d fall over if John moved. He grasped at the front of John’s shirt, digging his fingers in and wishing he could feel skin instead. “More.”

John pulled back slightly. “It doesn’t have to be tonight, Sherlock,” he said softly. “I want this; I want _everything_ with you. But we have time. This part will keep, if you aren’t ready.”

“I’m not...I’ve never…”

“I love you,” John said suddenly, his smile soft.

Sherlock froze, unable to believe he was actually hearing John say those words.

“I only care about this—us,” John continued. “Nothing else matters now. And I want to make you as happy as you’ve made me.”

“I am. I’ve never felt this way before.”

John chuckled softly. “Good. I’m glad.” He trailed fingers over Sherlock’s collarbone, exposed by the open collar of his dress shirt. “Should we…?”

“Oh, god, please!” Sherlock blurted. “Please, John. I feel…I feel…”

“Tell me.” John bent his head and kissed a trail over Sherlock’s jaw before moving warm, moist lips over Sherlock’s neck. He mouthed at the sensitive flesh and stopped occasionally to suck.

Sherlock gasped, feeling utterly boneless in John’s arms. He dropped his head to the side to give John better access to the ticklish spot beneath his ear.

“Tell me,” John begged.

“B-burning. So hot. Aching. I need you to touch me.”

John’s fingers twined in dark curls as he pulled Sherlock into another kiss. Sherlock tried to concentrate this time—to catalogue every sensation of John’s lips—but it was no use.

So this was what people meant when they said they “couldn’t help it.” This was the passion that drove so many to desperate acts.

John captured Sherlock’s bottom lip between his own and gently tugged. Sherlock felt an arc of heat that fired somewhere below his brain stem and blazed a trail through his belly before settling in his groin. Every gentle push, every tentative lick, every soft suck...slowly but surely, he began to lose track of conscious thought.

“Please,” Sherlock whispered, nearly breathless. “I want to see you, touch you, taste you.” He pushed back to search John’s face and saw only acceptance and mirrored arousal. “I want you, John. I…I love you.”

John groaned, kissing Sherlock once more before somehow getting them both to their feet. “Your room?”

Sherlock nodded, still a bit dazed.

John smiled and took his hand, squeezing it tight. He turned and led Sherlock from the sitting room, marching toward the bedroom as though advancing on the enemy. He pushed into the dark space, not bothering with lights. The kitchen provided enough for them to see each other as they scrabbled at each other’s clothes.

Sherlock imagined there would be other times—perhaps many, now that they understood one another. And those times could be slow and tender. They could carefully undress each other and take their time tracing over lines and scars. They could taste and tease.

Now, though, would not be one of those times. Now they were driven by desperate need, long denied.

John was panting as he tore at Sherlock’s shirt. He pulled until the buttons gave, scattering them across the room. He bent to lick a stripe over the newly exposed skin, from belly button to collarbone. Sherlock’s knees shook and he grabbed on to John for support. John continued his desperate disrobing. He made quick work of Sherlock’s belt and trouser buttons, shoving them unceremoniously—along with Sherlock’s pants—to the floor.

He moved to cover himself, but John caught his hands.

“Gorgeous. Every single bit of you,” John said firmly. “Absolutely beautiful.”

Sherlock flushed, letting his hands fall to his sides so John could push his shirt down his arms. Now, fully bare, he stood unabashed before the man he loved. John’s eyes were hungry, his touch worshipful. He moved forward until they were nearly pressed together and continued to graze gentle fingertips over Sherlock’s body.

“My god…” he breathed. “Sherlock.”

“Now you,” Sherlock insisted, suddenly desperate to see John.

John did not take his eyes from Sherlock as he swiftly stripped himself. As his shirt hit the floor, Sherlock could not resist reaching out. His breath caught at the feel of John’s skin beneath his fingers.

“You’re so warm,” he muttered.

John grinned at him. “Little more than warm right now, my love.” He tugged at his belt. “Help me?”

Sherlock nodded enthusiastically and assisted with the removal of trousers and pants. Shoes and socks were quickly disposed of and then. And then.

John moved first, but by a heartbeat. They reached for each other—arms wrapping tight, mouths pressed hot and wet, and naked flesh touching in places it never had before.

John moved them back toward the bed until Sherlock could feel the mattress bump against his legs. Refusing to let go of John, he scrambled backward. John followed, greedily chasing Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock stretched out dragging John down against him.

John groaned. “Oh, fuck. Sherlock.”

“You’re so...smooth,” Sherlock marveled, experimentally squirming against John’s naked body. He could feel the heat and girth of John’s erection against his belly and he shivered. “You really are.”

“Really am what?”

“As big as I thought you were,” Sherlock growled. He arched his hips off the bed, pressing his own aching cock into John’s thigh.

“Oh, jesus. I don’t...I don’t think I can last,” John panted, he frotted desperately against Sherlock. “You feel so fucking good. Waited so long.”

Sherlock pressed tender kisses along John’s shoulder, revelling in the intensity of it. He should be terrified. WAS terrified. But his body was buzzing with desire for John. Every fibre of him was singing John’s name. Heat was building in places he’d long since learned to ignore. Places and parts of him he’d believed he could simply refuse to acknowledge.

“W-what do you need?” John breathed, kissing Sherlock. “Tell me what you need.”

Sherlock gasped as John found a spot where the head of Sherlock’s cock was rubbing firmly into his hip.

“OH!”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, god!”

“Yes. Oh, Sherlock. Oh, fuck.”

“John, harder. Please!” Sherlock let his legs drop wide and welcomed John fully into that heated space. He wrapped muscular thighs around John’s legs and dug his fingertips into the lovely soft flesh of John’s bum.

“You are amazing, Sherlock. So, so, so….FUCK!”

John dropped his forehead to Sherlock’s shoulder as he came. Sherlock could feel every spasm, every twitch in John’s body as his pleasure was wrung from him. John kept grinding, moving to stimulate Sherlock as his own release pooled between them.

“Come on, my love. Let me feel you. I want to feel you. Come with me.”

Sherlock looked up into John’s face, overwhelmed by the tenderness there. The love.

He shattered, moaning helplessly—never taking his eyes from John’s.

They held there, staring into each other’s eyes as their bodies shuddered through orgasm and aftershocks.

“This...this isn’t real, is it?” Sherlock whispered.

“What?” John immediately rolled to the side, taking Sherlock with him in a tangle of sticky limbs. He pushed damp curls from Sherlock’s brow. “Of course it’s real.”

“How? How can you possibly love me back?” Sherlock pressed in close and buried his face in John’s chest. He could feel the comforting thump of John’s still-accelerated heartbeat.

“How can you possibly love me in the first place?” John asked softly. “I didn’t expect to be here either, my love. I thought my chance had passed. That there was no way we could be...this.”

“I wish—”

“Me too.” John sighed, and snuffled at Sherlock’s hair. “But we have this now. Thank you for being braver than I am.”

Sherlock smiled to himself. “I’m glad you liked your present.”

John’s arms tightened around him. “Best. Christmas. Ever.”


End file.
